


Alexithymia

by deathishauntedbyhumans



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Internal Monologue, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Purple Prose, Tenderness, Touch-Starved, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 09:15:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19270252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathishauntedbyhumans/pseuds/deathishauntedbyhumans
Summary: Muriel’s breath hitches as Asra stretches languidly in front of him, gloriously naked in the firelight.“You can touch me, you know.” Asra’s voice is lilting, gentle, amused. Murielachesfor him.





	Alexithymia

**Author's Note:**

> _Alexithymia: a personality construct characterized by an inability to identify and describe emotions in the self._

Asra is the most beautiful thing Muriel has ever seen. There isn’t any other way to describe him—

No. That’s not true. There are _plenty_ of other ways to describe him, but every single attempt to put words to Asra’s ethereal beauty falls flat in comparison to the real thing.

Muriel’s breath hitches as Asra stretches languidly in front of him, gloriously naked in the firelight.

“You can touch me, you know.” Asra’s voice is lilting, gentle, amused. Muriel _aches_ for him.

So he reaches out, further, further, until his calloused fingertips make contact with Asra’s skin. He’s warm from the fire, still slightly sticky from the rain they’ve just escaped. Asra leans into his touch, arching his back so that his chest slides easily against Muriel’s hand. He hums, the sound a low rumble in his throat.

“You should get out of your wet things, too,” he says softly. Muriel’s fingers jerk in surprise, but before he can pull away, Asra catches his hand in his own and deftly twines their fingers together. “It’s alright, Muriel,” he murmurs, and Muriel realises that his own hands are shaking. Even _he_ isn’t sure if it’s from the cold or from this opportunity that’s presented itself in front of him. “It’s just me.”

 _Therein lies the problem,_ Muriel thinks dryly but doesn’t ( _can’t)_ say, his gaze once again drawn reverently to the lines of Asra’s body as he shifts to reach with his free hand for the buckle of the strap that keeps Muriel’s outer cloak on. Asra is a magnificent being, a precious gem that has never dulled, and that likely never will.

Muriel is decidedly _not._ He doesn’t know how Asra is here, with him, taking shelter from the rain, instead of with someone far prettier.

Muriel doesn’t know how Asra, the most precious thing he’s ever been able to hold, has chosen _him_ to hold in return. He is undeserving, and he _knows_ it. _Everyone_ knows it. It seems that only Asra himself is blind to what seems otherwise to be common knowledge.

The buckle is undone; Muriel feels the outer layer of dripping-wet cloak slide off of his shoulders, assisted by Asra’s lithe fingers.

Asra hums again and leans forward. His movement is just slow enough for Muriel to catch onto the fact that he’s _deliberately_ drawing the moment out, and Muriel’s breath catches hard in his throat, but he doesn’t move away from the questing touch.

A kiss is pressed to the centre of his chest. Muriel lets out a _whoosh_ of air that ruffles Asra’s slowly-drying hair, and he feels Asra laugh softly against his skin. Unconcerned, contented pleasure rolls off of Asra in waves, nearly drowning Muriel in the sensation. It’s too much and not enough, all at once.

“You’re shivering,” Asra murmurs, and Muriel _does_ shiver properly, coaxed into doing so by the whisper of breath against him. He’s trembling a little otherwise, but he still can’t quite figure the right reason.

Asra tilts his own head up, hair brushing the bottom of Muriel’s chin before their gazes meet. Violet eyes sparkle playfully, set in wide against Asra’s tanned skin.

Warmth spreads through Muriel from every point of contact they share, and he can _feel_ the magic tingling over him as Asra uses it wordlessly to help erase the chill from his bones. It’s a comforting blanket without a physical source that settles over him, and he can feel his aching muscles slowly relaxing as the aura floats over his body.

Asra’s lips covering his own add to the warmth in a way that magic could never hope to imitate. It fills him with a fragile kind of light, something just intangible enough to make him feel like it’s always just out of reach.

Muriel covets it anyway.

How could he not, when every brush of Asra’s wind-chapped lips against his own heated skin makes him feel like he deserves love, deserves freedom?

Muriel’s eyes drift closed as they kiss, as _Asra_ kisses _him._ He feels when Asra slides from his lips to his cheek, when Asra’s tongue pokes out to sweep along his jawline and catch the rainwater still dripping sluggishly from his unkempt hair.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Asra murmurs, smiling against his skin, and Muriel _shudders._ Asra’s fingers ghost over his torso, sliding softly beneath the belt keeping the rest of his clothing in place, beneath the chains he wears around his neck.

Chains that keep him bound, that remind him of how _unworthy_ he is. Muriel shuts his eyes tighter. If he pretends he is someone else, anyone else, maybe he can pretend he is worthy of Asra’s touch.

He can pretend to be worthy of Asra’s love.

“Look at me,” Asra murmurs. He’s a hair’s breadth away from Muriel’s lips again, his breath puffing cool over the spit-slicked skin. With no small amount of reluctance, Muriel forces his eyes open.

He sees nothing but bright, blinding beauty, and it makes him _ache_ and _ache_ and _ache._

Asra is smiling, soft and fond and playful. “That’s better,” he says, and while Muriel is watching — _how can he look away, he is transfixed on the vision that is Asra set before him, he’s the picture of decadence and grace and the heavens themselves would be jealous if they knew him—_ he lifts the hand still entwined with Muriel’s own and begins kissing Muriel’s fingertips, one by one by one.

It’s _soft_ and gentle and all too much, and Muriel wants to cry, wants to yell, wants to rip his hands from Asra and scold him for daring to sully his beautiful lips with the cracked skin of Muriel’s hands. He wants to reign in the wandering spirit that holds him, because if he doesn’t, Asra will continue to hold Muriel like he’s something precious, and it’s too much and not enough all in one if he continues.

“A—Asra—,” Muriel whispers, his voice barely audible above the crackling of the fire beside them. He knows Asra hears him, though. They’re pressed too close together for Asra to pretend he can’t. He can’t say anything else, desperate for Asra to both _stop_ and to _keep going_ all in the same moment.

Whatever Asra gleans from the desperate, broken whisper makes his smile soften impossibly further. He presses a final kiss to the pad of Muriel’s thumb and then tugs Muriel’s hand towards his body once more. With some coaxing, Muriel finds his hand laid flat against Asra’s bare hip. The contact both soothes the ache inside of Muriel’s chest and makes him burn hotter.

He reflexively curls his fingers into Asra’s skin, and Asra arches his back like a kitten until he can press himself into Muriel’s lap. Muriel stiffens.

Asra is pliant in his arms, pliant and gorgeous and ethereal, and Muriel has no idea what to do.

Before panic can set in in its entirety, Asra brushes his lips over Muriel’s chest, just above where he knows his heart to be. It leaps beneath his touch, pulse fluttering more quickly than a hummingbird’s wing.

“I could fall asleep like this,” Asra breathes, like it’s a secret only to be carried by the wind.

Of his own volition, Muriel makes a decision, and it’s hesitant, but he slowly brings his free hand to wrap around Asra, holding him as securely as he deserves to be held.

Like he’s something precious, because he _is_ something precious

Asra smiles into Muriel’s skin; Muriel feels it like fire. When Asra’s breathing finally evens out, slow and deep, Muriel finally shuts his eyes again and drops his forehead to rest against the top of Asra’s now-dry, fluffy hair.

“I love you,” Muriel rumbles, cursing himself even as he says it. He hates that he can only say it when Asra can’t hear him. He hates that he can only show Asra how precious he is when Asra can’t see it for himself. He hates his own cowardice, the ache in his very soul that permeates every single interaction he has with him.

Asra shifts in his arms, burying his face deeper against Muriel’s chest, and Muriel _aches._

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/comments are love! Come scream at me on tumblr @deathishauntedbyhumans.


End file.
